Page 59 of Wings of Destruction

Clark glances up into the rafters, composing his speech in his head before saying, “We’ve covered at length the history leading up to King Lochlain taking the throne. We have also detailed General Ryson’s rise to power and his strategies in the recent skirmishes. I’ve made my thoughts on the subject known.”

Clark chuckles under his breath.

Yes, I’ve heard all about his thoughts. I shift forward slightly, sliding my hands under the desk to hide the way my fingers tighten on my quill.

In fact, Clark had pulled me to the side when I first got to DragonSpear to try to make nice, as he called it. He’d wanted to introduce himself to both me and my cousin, to make his stance known on my father’s policies, and to get on our good side.

It really boils down to a desire to get the information out of me whether I want to give it or not.

He’s way too interested in what my father is doing, thinks it’s his right to know, since he’s in a position of authority.

I’m just Roman’s son.

It’s nothing important, not like the position Tristan holds. I’m only out there on the front lines because I happened to be born to the wrong person. An accident.

Nothing special.

“There have been some impressive moves lately.” Clark steeples his fingers in front of him. “Oh yes. Some great moves. General Roman Ryson is marching our progress forward. He raided the village of Fallkirk only weeks ago, crushing the budding resistance there, and moved on Onassis in the last few days. Word has reached us of his victory.”

I sit up straighter and lose my grip, pen clattering to the floor. Cold slides through my veins. He what?

No word came from my father except for the letter he’d sent a few days ago, berating me for my failure.

Tristan is already watching me when I turn in his direction. His lips pry away from his teeth in a wide, annoying smile. He’d known. How could he not have known?

But he hadn’t been called into battle either, and it’s a small consolation on my part. Minuscule, really.

Frustration rises instantly.

Clark flashes me a brief look of triumph before he swivels his gaze across the rest of the enraptured student body made up entirely of nobles.

A growing surprise knots at the base of my spine and lodges there.

“The most recent attack boasted a powerful victory for our forces,” Clark continues. “The General replenished the supplies for his troops and crushed another uprising.”

It’s a nice way of saying that a lot of people died. Because where else would he get the supplies from?

Why in the scorched Void hadn’t I been told about this?

Astrid’s hand is in the air fast enough to sound like a whip crack. “Do we know why he targeted Onassis?”

I bend to grab my quill and work my sneer into some semblance of neutrality. Apathy is the name of the game especially when it comes to Clark and his obsession. He’ll sniff out any irregularities and report back, if only to gain favor.

“As far as I’m aware, it was another group of radicals who took offense to the rising taxes and did not want to part with their currency,” Clark replies.

In other words, he has no idea.

Neither does Tristan, although he does his best to pin his superiority in place. The lines on his forehead give him away.

My fingers clench around the quill hard enough to send ink spurting across the page if I’m not careful. The slender body cracks and I force myself to pry each finger free and take a soothing breath to the bottom of my lungs.

It doesn’t help.

The knots are still there, and Clark’s voice is a drone of things I don’t want to hear. On one hand, it’s a blessing not to have to see the destruction myself. But on the other hand, I’ll have to live with the guilt nipping at the heels of my relief.

Those people are dead whether I’m there to watch it happen or not.

Would I have been able to do something? Make a difference?